


Stay hydrated!

by stjarna



Series: Writing Prompts / Drabbles / Requests [10]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Conference, Bi!Fitzsimmons, F/M, Hangover, Memory Loss, Mention of bisexuality, Nerds flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:11:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8597464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjarna/pseuds/stjarna
Summary: Fitz and Hunter are attending a conference. The morning after the conference dinner, or--more precisely--the post-conference dinner open bar, Fitz wakes up making an interesting discovery. Only he has no idea what happened.





	

**Author's Note:**

> leopoldfitzsimmons requested Nr. 28 + Fitzsimmons from [a list of writing prompts on Tumblr](http://the-nerdy-stjarna.tumblr.com/post/152337867554/drabble-challenge)
> 
> The task: Incorporate the phrase “How drunk was I?” into your fic/drabble.

His friend’s arm is draped over the edge of the bed, his hair messy, his mouth slightly ajar and drooling. Fitz thinks he probably looked like that only a few minutes ago, before he woke up, before he discovered _it_ , and shot up in his bed to stare at the mystery. He puts down the now-empty glass on his bedside table, turns back to the bed, bends down, and shakes his colleague’s arm. “ _Hunter!_ ”

The sleepy body stirs, and buries his face into the pillow. “Ugh, not so loud, mate,” Hunter’s muffled voice exclaims.

Fitz shakes his friend’s back. “What’s _this_?” he asks and stretches out his arm next to Hunter’s pillow.

With another groan, Hunter turns his head and sleepily opens his eyes. “Call me,” he reads. Groggily, he lifts his arm and pats Fitz on the shoulder. “Fitz, my man, you scored some digits at the conference after-party! Congratulations!”

“Yes, but _what_ digits?” Fitz asks in return, and stares at the black writing on his arm for the umpteenth time. “They’re all smudged… And _whose_ digits?”

“I don’t know,” Hunter mumbles, pressing his face back into the pillow.

“How drunk was I last night?” Fitz inquires.

“I don’t know. I passed out,” Hunter replies, begrudgingly turning his head to the side again to face Fitz. “I’m not even sure how we ended up back in our room.”

“What’s the last you remember?” Fitz continues his interrogation.

“Ugh,” Hunter exclaims, turning onto his back and pinching the bridge of his nose. “A gorgeous blond not giving a crap about my charming personality.”

“Yeah, tell me something that _doesn’t_ happen every time you force me to go drinking,” Fitz replies, annoyed.

“It’s probably someone from the conference,” Hunter suggests.

“ _Fantastic_ ,” Fitz says sarcastically. “That narrows it down to—what?—300 people?”

“Some of those are presumably married… or not interested in dating the same _or_ other sex,” Hunter teases him.

“Big help, Hunter. _Big help_.”

Hunter sleepily rubs his face. “Not my fault you’re keeping your playing field open to both sides, thus making situations like this more difficult to figure out.”

“Yeah, because I score phone numbers so frequently that we’ve landed in that situation before,” Fitz comments. “ _Dammit_. Why do I not remember this?”

“Mate,” Hunter says, getting out of bed and placing his hands on Fitz’s shoulders. “My head is killing me. If we’re continuing this conversation, I’m gonna need food, and coffee, and aspirin.” He pauses for a moment. “Why do _you_ not look more hung-over?”

Fitz holds his other arm in front of Hunter’s face.

“Made you take aspirin and drink large glass of water. Stay hydrated!” Hunter deciphers. “A digit owner giving medical advice. That’s an odd one.”

“I thought it was nice,” Fitz replies, and looks at his arm. “And it worked, because I feel fairly clear-headed all things considered. Well, except for the _bloody_ gap in my memory—whose digits these are!”

Hunter rolls his eyes and tilts his head to the side. “Food! Coffee!” he pleads.

“Fine,” Fitz acknowledges begrudgingly.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they’re sitting in the breakfast room of the hotel. Hunter is trying to focus on his coffee and bacon and eggs, his brain still fuzzy and barely cohesive, while Fitz continues to jabber on about insane theories concerning the writing on his arms, each more ridiculous than the last.

“Man, the ‘stay hydrated’ side is perfectly legible. Why couldn’t the other one be perfectly legible?” He keeps staring at the smudged writing. “I can sort of make out the first three numbers,” he continues. “I could try to—”

“No,” Hunter interjects. “You _can’t_ try every possible combination. You’ll be eighty by the time you figure out the correct one.”

“Maybe I could get a list of all conference dinner participants, then Google them all! Maybe that’ll trigger a memory,” Fitz suggests instead.

“Yeah, mate, no offense, but I’m not sure that’s worth the trouble,” Hunter replies, trying to ignore the pounding in his head.

“Maybe I could run some tests at the lab when we’re back home. UV light or something. That might make the ink more visible.”

“Isn’t UV kinda bad for you?” Hunter asks. “Plus, we’re not going home until tomorrow. You’re planning on not showering until then? Dude, I wouldn’t recommend that, based on our hangover stench.”

“Ugh,” Fitz’s head drops onto the table, pounding against the hard surface repeatedly. “This _never_ happens to me. And now it _did_ , and I have _no_ idea who it was.” He lifts his head back up and his blue sad puppy-eyes stare at Hunter. “I mean, maybe this was a real contender!”

“Yeah mate. Sorry. Some things are just—” He pauses as his eyes catch a glimpse of two woman across the breakfast room. “—Not meant to be,” he finishes.

Fitz goes into another sad monologue about missed opportunities, but Hunter is too focused on the two women. He recognizes one of them as the hot blond from the previous night that seemed to have a smart comeback for anything he had thrown her way. But it’s the other woman that draws his attention, whose gaze constantly drifts over to their table. She looks familiar as well, with her shy smile and long brown wavy hair.

Fitz is still rambling on, but Hunter doesn’t pay him any attention anymore. Instead he’s giddy inside, as the memories from the previous night come rushing back to him.

Yes, the blond one… _dang it_ … Bobbi! He actually remembered her name! That didn’t happen too often. He met her at the bar after the conference dinner, while he was fetching beers for him and Fitz, whose original plan had been to head straight for their room after the actual food part of the dinner was over.

“No way, mate! Open bar!” Hunter told him, and eventually—as usual—Fitz had caved and agreed to hang out, as long as Hunter would keep the drinks coming.

Despite her snarky comebacks at the bar, Bobbi somehow agreed to join him in their booth. Fitz didn’t look too happy about the added company, but when Hunter put two bottles of beer right in front of him, he sat quietly, sipping one after the other, while Hunter and Bobbie started the most infuriating, engaging, and fun argument he had ever experienced. At some point, Fitz suggested that he would head to the room… and then _she_ showed up.

Out of nowhere, she appeared at their table, shyly mumbling Bobbi’s name. Bobbi introduced her as a friend and colleague. Jemma. Her name was Jemma. Jemma explained that someone spilled a glass of red wine over her attire earlier, so she had retreated to her room to change. Her English properness and politeness was almost unreal.

Hunter remembers that Fitz jumped up. Literally jumped up, gesturing at the open seat next to Bobbi. Jemma accepted his invitation politely. And so the night went on. Hunter and Bobbi continued their heated argument, but Hunter could see his friend clutching a bottle of beer, his knee nervously jittering under the table, while he tried to keep a conversation going with Jemma. But, man, Fitz sucked at small-talk.

Eventually, Fitz started to fetch more beers for them. And some more after that. Lots of beers. Probably some ill-advised attempt to loosen his own tongue to talk more comfortably with Jemma. My, oh my, was he smitten with her. But somewhere around the… nope… Hunter couldn’t even count them anymore… somewhere around beer Nr. one-too-many, he vaguely remembers the two gorgeous women—who of course had politely declined the beers at some point—dragging their sorry-drunk-asses to their room. Hunter recalls that Bobbi complained about him being heavier than he looked before dropping him onto his bed.

Having solved the mystery, Hunter—proudly grinning—shoves another bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Except Fitz has no clue. He’s still talking, moaning, and complaining, his back to the secret digit owner.

 _How does he manage to keep going while I must have been in my own mind for a good 10 minutes?_ Hunter wonders.

“Mate!” he exclaims, standing up. “Let’s go.”

Hunter walks around the table and grabs Fitz by his elbow, trying to pull him up. Fitz struggles to get out of his chair, almost causing it to fall over.

“What are you—” Fitz mumbles in confusion… and then he sees her, and Hunter can tell that he remembers as well.

Unfortunately, Fitz also appears to be completely frozen to the spot.

“Oh, dude. No way,” Hunter comments, shakes his head, and continues on his path, leaving the frozen Fitz behind.

“Bobbi. Jemma,” he greets the two women, nodding politely at both of them when he reaches their table.

“You remember our names?” Bobbi replies, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “I must admit, I didn’t think you would.”

“Oh, you’d be amazed by the things my brain can retain,” Hunter replies.

“If you say so,” she counters, her eyes smirking at him.

“Well, I’m actually here for Jemma, if you don’t mind,” Hunter says and turns to the other woman.

“Me?” Jemma replies, surprised.

“Well,” Hunter begins, leaning on the table with both hands. “If my Sherlock Holmes genius doesn’t deceive me, then _you_ left well-meaning medical advice _and_ your phone number on my good friend Fitz’s arm, correct?”

“Well, I was hoping he would call me to tell me how he felt in the morning,” the English woman replies. “He seemed quite intoxicated and… well… I was worried.”

“Oh, Jemma,” Bobbi chimes in. “How often do I have to tell you that you’re a _terrible_ liar?”

“I’m not lying,” Jemma protests.

“Yeah, well, maybe not,” Bobbi counters. “But you are leaving out the part where you thought Fitz was the most interesting person you had ever met… and quite dashing… your words… not mine… Dashing is a bit too British for my taste.”

“Bobbi!” Jemma exclaims, her eyes wide.

“Come on! You’re not fooling Mr. Sherlock here,” Bobbi replies, gesturing at Hunter.

“Thank you,” Hunter says. “That was _almost_ a compliment.”

“Alright,” Bobbi begins, leaning closer to Hunter. “So… if your friend got Jemma’s message, why has he A) not called, and B) why is he standing over there like he was struck by lightning?”

“Well,” Hunter replies, grinning mischievously. “Regarding A) Her phone number was smudged. He couldn’t make out the numbers. And regarding B) He spent the whole morning trying to remember who wrote the messages on his arm, because—you’re right—he _was_ quite intoxicated… and now, the penny has finally dropped and I think he’s in shock to remember that it was actually a drop-dead gorgeous and brilliantly smart woman—which presumably matters to him even more than the drop-dead gorgeous part— _and_ he’s probably concerned that he made a fool out of himself thanks to being pissed as a fart.”

“Well, he certainly has no reason to be embarrassed,” Jemma chimes in. “It happens to the best of us.”

“How ‘bout you go over to him?” Bobbi suggests. “Looks like he won’t be able to set a foot in front of the other for another few hours otherwise.”

A smile flashes across Jemma’s face. “I might just do that!” she replies and gets up confidently.

Fitz eyes widen when he notices what Jemma is about to do, and Hunter is half-expecting him to pass out. Or throw up. _Oh, please, Fitz. Whatever you do, don’t throw up!_

“So, you wanna sit down and watch the shy, nerdy flirt-show together?” Bobbi interrupts his train of thought.

“Don’t mind if I do!” Hunter replies and sits down in Jemma’s chair.

* * *

“It’s nice to see you again, Fitz… Looks like you stayed hydrated!”

“I did. Yes.” He’s breathing heavily, his heart beating in his throat. “Yournumbergotsmudged,” he mumbles.

She smiles. _God what a beautiful smile_. “Hunter mentioned that.”

“Did he? Did… Did he?” Fitz clears his throat.

“I could give it to you again,” she suggests.

He nods enthusiastically. “Umm. Yes… yes, that would be nice. Then we could… maybe… get coffee? Or tea… I’m usually more of a tea person. I mean, you’re in DC, too, right? You… you… you said that yesterday. That you’re in DC.”

“Yes, DC. That’s correct,” she confirms. “And I’d love to get tea.” Her smile is still beaming, and he’s confident that it has by now burnt itself into his brain forever. “Tea person here as well,” she adds. “Seems like we’re both British clichés in that regard.”

He chuckles nervously, unsure of how to reply. Instead he hands her his phone with trembling hands.

She takes it and presses the main button. “Well, that’s a very nice capuchin monkey on your lockscreen,” she comments.

Fitz feels his ears turning bright red. “Right,” he mumbles, grabbing his phone back. “I’ll… I’ll unlock it.” He hands back the unlocked phone. “And the monkey,” he begins, trying to figure out how to make this less embarrassing, but he can’t think of anything but the truth. _What the hell_ , he thinks. “Well… I like monkeys.”

“They are a rather fascinating species, aren’t they?” she replies with true sincerity, and Fitz feels like he might just have found the perfect woman.

“Yes,” he replies quietly.

“Are you heading back to DC today as well?” she asks while creating a new contact in his phone.

“Umm, no,” Fitz replies, anxiously rubbing the back of his neck. “Tomorrow. Cheaper flight.”

“I see,” she notes, nodding sympathetically. She dials her own number and waits until her phone vibrates in her pocket.

She pulls it out, and taps the screen. “And now _I_ have _your_ number as well,” she says, and flashes her phone at him, to indicate that she would like to enter the rest of his contact info.

“Le… Leopold Fitz,” he replies. “But… just Fitz. Please. _Just_ Fitz.”

Quietly, she enters his name. “So. You’ll _definitely_ call me when you’re back in DC, Fitz?” she asks, grinning mischievously.

“Definitely!” he replies, and swallows his nervousness.

“I look forward to it,” she whispers and turns around to leave.

“Oh, and—” he calls after her.

She turns back to face him. “Yes?”

Fitz leans slightly forward and points at her. “I… I don’t usually get this drunk,” he explains. “It’s a rare occurrence and usually involves Hunter… or… in yesterday’s case, a lack of courage in talking to you because… you’re nice.” He exhales sharply.

A smile flashes across her face. “Well, you’re _certainly_ one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met… and quite dashing,” she adds.

He straightens back up and nervously tucks his shirt deeper into his pants. “Dashing? Really?”

She chuckles. “Just call, okay?”

A nod is all he can manage.

**Author's Note:**

> As a huge Firefly fan, I knew exactly what quote would have to follow "How drunk was I?"
> 
>  


End file.
